


Trust Fall

by Spatz



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Character of Faith, F/M, Food, Fury Roadtrip, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Gun Lessons, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Missing Scene, Panic Attacks, Sad Dad Max, Trust Issues, hand-holding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-03
Updated: 2017-12-28
Packaged: 2018-04-12 17:35:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4488546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spatz/pseuds/Spatz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Seven conversations on the Fury Road.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Furiosa

**Author's Note:**

> bonehandledknife said ["This movie's like a trust fall"](http://bonehandledknife.tumblr.com/post/123785248130/oneangryshot-for-bonehandledknife-furiosa) and I absolutely stole her line for the title.
> 
> As ever, immense gratitude and praise to my all-mighty beta inmyriadbits, who is very patient with me and also fixes all my screwups. Thanks, sis.

"And now she's dead!" Cheedo's shout rang out in the silence. 

Furiosa lowered her rifle, blocking the sight of Capable and the Dag clinging to Cheedo and arguing with her. Her body ached all over. She'd had harder fights and longer drives than today – she shouldn't be this _tired_. 

In the distance, Cheedo wailed, "Angharad!" 

Furiosa blinked hard, turning away. She needed to get the Rig moving.

The Fool was bent over the engine when she got there, pouring water into the coolant reservoir. 

"Any damage?" she asked, watching his hands move confidently over the radiator. He must have checked the hoses for leaks while she was shooting the motorcycle scout. 

The Fool shook his head, darting his eyes between her and the engine as he recapped the tank. Without prompting, he knelt up and started pouring the rest of the water over the supercharger intakes, letting it steam off. 

Furiosa wasn't sure how he got so familiar with tankers like the Rig, but she didn't question it. It was one more impossibly useful thing about him: he fought well, adapted fast, knew engines, was a hell of a driver, and wanted to get away from Joe as desperately as the rest of them. He wasn't as good a shot as Furiosa, but few people were. 

They wouldn't have made it through the canyon without him.

Even with the Rig, Furiosa had known this escape was a long shot – no crew, no backup, just her and five women who needed protection against all of Immortan Joe's troops and resources, plus everyone they met along the way. Having someone capable around to watch her back made such a difference that she was unsettled, recalculating all her contingencies and not quite sure what to do with the breathing room.

With the Fool here, Furiosa could cover their rear while he fixed the engine; she could make repairs later while he drove. She could even _sleep_ , if she wanted to. She wasn't willing to call him _lucky_ just yet, given all the trouble he'd caused, but if they make it to the Green Place... maybe then.

The Fool emptied the last of the water over the engine and Furiosa held out her hand for the jerrycan. “One more. Then we go.”

He cast a dubious glance at the steaming engine.

Furiosa sighed. He was right: they should really let the engine cool more, but there was no time.

His eyes flickered down to her rifle, and then warily scanned the horizon in the direction of the canyon. He grunted once and bent over the engine again. Furiosa was pretty sure he'd done everything he could at this point without burning himself on the metal, so she took it for the reluctant agreement that it was.

Furiosa stepped up into the cab and grabbed a handful of canteens to fill up for the road. The girls were trailing back along the far side of the Rig: Cheedo's sobs floated through the window, carried by the wind.

Distracted, Furiosa slipped on the step down and had to steady herself on the hinges of the missing door. The metal was deeply scored and dented – from scraping along the outcropping, she realized with a jolt. Maybe if she'd moved faster, steered a little wider, the hinges would have held and Angharad–

Furiosa turned and strode back to the water spigot. She didn't have time right now. She couldn't.

Steam was still rising from the engine when she got back, but not much. She passed the water up to the Fool and slung the canteens over her shoulder, shifting her grip on the rifle. Still no sign of pursuit, no tell-tale flicker of sun on metal coming out of the canyon, but it was only a matter of time. If they got one motorcycle through the pass, more were coming.

The Fool poured another wave of water over the intakes, waited for the few wisps of steam to fade, and then held the back of his hand a few inches from the metal, checking the temperature. He frowned slightly but nodded down at her, so she propped her rifle against the Rig and picked up the engine plate from the ground. It was uncomfortably warm for her bare skin, so she wrapped her scarf around her right hand and used her prosthetic as much as she could.

"Careful, it's hot," Furiosa said, levering the plate into position. He nodded silently, locking the panel back into place with darting touches. 

By the time she spotted the wide, bloody smears he'd left on the metal, he was already jumping down from the engine. His hand was still bleeding from being pinned under the steering wheel, and he clearly couldn't bend the last two fingers anymore – broken, maybe, or just badly swollen.

Furiosa reached out without thinking. "Your hand–” 

He bristled, glaring at her and hunching his shoulders aggressively. 

She jerked sideways, reaching automatically towards the rifle, her eyes reading _threat_ before her brain caught up. Shoving down the spike of alarm, she eased her hand away from the rifle and took a step back. 

He hadn't gone for a weapon or on the attack. He was simply hiding his vulnerability from her. It was instinct: the same reflex that had made Furiosa go for her gun. 

As soon as she was out of reach of her rifle, his shoulders dropped back down, just as she'd thought – but he kept his hand tucked behind his hip, hiding the bloody fingers from view. He didn't look all there, behind his eyes. Fear did that to a person.

Furiosa knew what was going through his head right now. Part of him figured that he was less trouble dead than injured – the same way that a part of Furiosa knew that an injury would slow them down, waste resources.

She didn't want to think like that anymore. She wanted there to be room in this world for Angharad's mercy, for Cheedo's tears and her mother's half-forgotten songs. She wanted this man to watch her back and trust that she wouldn't turn on him. She wanted to believe with her whole heart that _he_ wouldn't turn on _them_. Maybe they were too broken for that – or maybe, all they had now were the little spaces they carved out for themselves, stolen pieces of humanity that they had to fight to keep.

She'd already stolen a War Rig. She could steal a little more.

"I need you to drive,” Furiosa said, then pulled one of the canteens over her head, moving slowly. She held it out to him.

The Fool blinked and hesitantly straightened the rest of the way out of his defensive hunch. Furiosa waited. After a moment, he grunted and took the canteen, as carefully as she offered it. 

"You should clean that," she said, nodding at his hand. Then she turned her back to him, picked up the rifle in a reverse grip to make it clear she wasn't going to use it, and climbed into the cab.

The girls were all on board, huddled into each other along the back bench. Furiosa slid to the far side, laying her rifle between the seats. Capable was soothing Cheedo with long strokes over her sleek black hair. They had stopped crying, but the silence was almost worse than the tears. Furiosa didn't know how to help with either one. 

She passed the canteens to Toast, who took them silently. Outside, water splashed, followed by the thunk of an empty water can. 

The door creaked open, and she looked up, meeting the Fool's wary eyes. He slid into the driver's seat with a rustle of leather, creaked the door closed, and carefully began the killswitch sequence. 

The cab was a mess of things that had shaken loose in the chase, mixed in with the trinkets that the Fool had dumped out of the girls' bag. As the Rig lurched into motion, Furiosa scooped the tools out of the jumble and started loading a repair harness with what she needed. She kicked the rest into a corner – then stopped, fishing a roll of blue-gray cloth out of the mix. Faintly, she remembered Angharad packing it, but now she'd never know for what. It was a rougher weave than the fine linen that the girls wore, more durable but still soft. She wrapped the cloth around her fingers experimentally and tugged – yes, it would do.

“Here,” Furiosa said and offered the roll to the Fool. He stared at it blankly, so she added, “For your hand.”

He took it, awkward in a way that he hadn't been passing her guns or driving the rig or working on the engine. She didn't try to help, and once he shifted his grip on the wheel, he started wrapping the bandage one-handed with practiced ease. 

Furiosa turned back to her tools.

“So, um,” he said, speaking for the first time since Angharad died, “where is this– this Green Place?”

Furiosa looked up and met his eyes. He was calm again after the incident outside, but uncertain – not sure if he should ask or if she would answer, but trusting her enough to try.

“It's a long night's run, heading east,” Furiosa said, and tried to ignore the little bloom of hope in her chest. Maybe they weren't too broken after all.


	2. Toast

"Angharad called them anti-seed," Dag said.

"Plant one and watch something die," Cheedo echoed, tucked miserably into herself.

Toast watched the feral closely but he didn't respond, just as he hadn't reacted to her 'raunchy' joke before. He just stared ahead at the big flat nothing they were driving through. 

She'd get a reaction eventually. It was better to know sooner than later where his snapping point was. Every man had one.

 _Plant one and watch something die._ Angharad had thought that was a bad thing – and look where that got her. Toast felt sick at the thought, and angry.

With all the bullets counted, she had nothing to do. She twisted her scarf back around her neck, fiddling it until it sat right, and still felt like she was about to twitch out of her skin. She glanced at Cheedo and Dag, curled up together like usual, then looked away. There wasn't anything she could do for them. There wasn't anything to do, period, which was the problem.

So she picked up the little revolver and turned it over, then wrapped her fingers around the grip and raised it up to aim at the horizon, picturing Old Joe's face. She'd unloaded the gun to count the bullets; knowing the chamber was empty, the temptation to pull the trigger was too strong to resist.

 _Click_.

And _that_ finally got a _hell_ of a reaction. The feral flinched sideways, snarling, his fist jerking up to strike. Dag yelped and Toast froze, her heart pounding.

She met his eyes – for the first time, she realized – and saw they were wide, wild.

Scared.

The feral looked away as fast as he'd looked over, putting both hands back on the makeshift steering wheel. "Don't," he gritted through his teeth.

Her heart was racing, but Toast set her jaw, anger clawing up inside her, wanting out. "Why?" she demanded. "Because you don't like it?"

His eyes flicked over. "Bad for the gun, without bullets," he said.

Toast made a face. She hadn't heard that before. Grudgingly, she moved her finger off the trigger, but aimed it at the horizon again. For such a little thing, the gun was bloody heavy to hold with one hand. She rested her elbow on the seat and imagined shooting Joe again: the bark of the gun, a spray of red, then– 

"Both hands," the feral said, almost too quiet to hear over the road.

"What?" Toast lowered the gun. 

The feral let go of the makeshift wheel for a moment and held his arms out in front of him, hands cupped around an imaginary gun. Toast hesitated, then copied him.

He dropped his hands back to the wheel before she quite had it. Toast fumbled with the new grip, until he said, "Tuck your thumb." He pointed at her hand. She shifted, and he grunted approval. "Down here," he added, hovering a finger above her left elbow. 

He was being careful not to touch her. He hadn't touched her earlier either, Toast realized – just yanked her around by her scarf like a dog on a leash.

Her lip curled. Locking her arms into the new position, she swiveled around until the gun was pointing at the feral – right in his face, just as he'd done to her. "Like this?" she asked.

"Toast," hissed Cheedo. "What are you doing?"

"It's not loaded," Toast said dismissively. She liked the way the feral was watching her now, not looking away. He wasn't scared, like he'd been before – like she'd been – but it still felt good. Powerful.

The feral opened his mouth, hesitated, then said, "Be sure. When you aim, always be sure."

 _Plant one and watch something die_ , Toast thought, anger burning up her throat. "Like you were sure, when you had that gun in my face?" she snapped.

His eyes flickered to the side, then away.

Behind her, Furiosa said, "Toast. Mind letting me in?" Her voice was dead level, but Toast flushed hot with embarrassment. She pulled the gun over the seat and flopped back.

Furiosa slid into the front seat and slung her toolbelt over her head. "Nice grip," she said, starting to sort the tools back into their various pockets and bags on the dash. 

Dag ratted her out, the yabber. “The madman showed her how.”

Furiosa shot the feral a surprised look.

"You and him didn't shoot like that," Toast said, feeling childish as soon as the words were out.

"Two hands are more stable and more accurate, especially for a beginner. The only reason to use one hand with a pistol is if you've only got one free. That way takes practice, and strength." Furiosa lifted her right hand and made a fist, so Toast could see the muscles cording all the way up her wrist and forearm. 

Toast glanced over at the feral, who was absently flexing his own hands on the wheel in a silent echo. His sleeves had fallen back from his wrists, showing the muscles bunch and relax – and for the first time, Toast saw that his wrists were scraped bloody, with dark bruises rising up under the skin. It hadn't just been the muzzle and chain – they'd tied him up like an animal to slaughter.

The first thing Angharad had said to her after Old Joe dumped Toast in the vault was, "We are not things." Then she'd gone on to say that when they'd been treated like things so long it was hard not to buy into it, but that Angharad and the others would help Toast remember, if Toast would help them, too.

The feral had stolen the Rig and shot Angharad and put a gun in Toast's face – but then he'd helped Furiosa when she'd asked, and showed Toast how to hold a gun without her asking at all. Maybe he was trying to remember, trying not to be the feral animal that Toast had named him.

Furiosa continues, "Even the little gun is going to kick up when you fire. That grip will help you keep it steady."

"Then I guess it's a good thing he taught me," Toast said, studying the feral – no, the _man_. Grudgingly, she added, "Thanks."

He went still, his hands tightening on the makeshift wheel.

“Let's hope you don't need it,” Furiosa said, watching the man. After a moment, as if he'd sensed Furiosa staring, he unfroze and turned his head. They traded grim looks, and Toast could tell neither of them believed that was likely.

Toast cupped her hands around the revolver, setting the feeling in her memory, and began to give Furiosa the inventory she'd asked for. 

They'd need every bullet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As with the engine stuff in the first chapter, everything I know comes from the internet. Max is showing Toast the [Weaver Stance](http://www.policeone.com/police-products/firearms/training/articles/7981637-The-3-shooting-stances-Which-ones-right-for-you/) (the arm positioning, at least), and dry-firing an older Smith & Wesson revolver like hers [is indeed bad for the gun](http://blog.cheaperthandirt.com/dry-fire-practice-is-it-safe-for-your-firing-pin/).


	3. Capable

The sun was just a red sliver above the horizon when Capable said good night to Nux.

“I should get back,” she told him. Soon, it would be too dark for her to watch for any pursuit – or to climb safely. “Do you need anything? Food, water?”

Nux blinked up at her from the corner he'd propped himself in. He was a sweet boy under all the paint and scars, with the bluest eyes she'd ever seen – blue like the sky, and just as wide and clear. Angharad had been right to keep Furiosa from killing him. They've been talking for a while, with Capable leaning over the back with her binoculars and asking him questions. 

It'd worked, a little, to distract herself from the gaping hole of Angharad not being at her side (and never again, not ever). 

“They had War Fuel on the pursuit vehicle,” Nux said. Capable assumed 'War Fuel' was some kind of food. “And there's water here, see?” He lifted a canteen out of a pocket in the side of the lookout post that she hadn't noticed, then squinted at her in the fading light. “What about you?”

“What?”

“Have you eaten?”

“There's plenty of food in the hold,” Capable assured him. She'd been too scared to eat when they were hiding, though; now that he mentioned it, she was feeling hungry.

Nux looked horrified. “But that's Immortan Joe's stuff–” he stopped, as if realizing that he was, in fact, talking to someone who had _been_ 'Immortan Joe's stuff' until this morning. And that _he_ was no longer Joe's, either.

Gently, Capable said, “It's our stuff now. If you get hungry, you should go down and eat. Just make sure they can't see you.” Nux couldn't hide forever: she'd have to tell Furiosa about him when they got to the Green Place, at the very least. She'd think of something.

Nux nodded, still looking distressed after his slip. Capable didn't want to leave him looking like that, so she leaned down and kissed his cheek, just over the scar slanting down his cheekbone.

His eyes went wide and pleased, and she smiled at him. “I'll try to come back again. Stay safe, alright?”

“You, too.” 

Capable turned away, but stopped at a tug on her binoculars. She looked back. Nux bit his lip, looking worried, like something had just occurred to him. “The bloodbag. Are you sure it's safe?”

“Bloodbag?” It took her a moment to place the word, she was that tired.

Nux frowned at her. “The one driving the rig. He's a raging feral. I heard he killed three men trying to escape, and jumped onto a skyhook – while he was still chained up!”

Capable wasn't sure what that meant, but judging by his expression, it was insane even by kamicrazy War Boy standards.

 _A raging feral_. That did sound like the man who'd walked up to the Rig and started pointing guns and grunting at them. Capable had been so angry at him: for shooting Angharad, then for leaving her behind. Now, she was just tired. Being angry wasn't going to bring Angharad back.

“Well, he's on our side now, right?” When Nux didn't look reassured, she added, “And Furiosa will be there.”

That did the trick. He grinned up at her, stretching the scars he'd cut into his lips. Capable brushed her fingers across his mouth again, to surprise that pleased look out of him again. “Good night,” she said, and blushed at how wistful she sounded.

“Good night,” he echoed, looking amazed.

Capable forced herself to turn away from Nux and duck out of the lookout post. It really was getting too dark to see.

She climbed down into the hold and gathered up a bunch of produce in her shawl. Some of it wasn't any good for the road – the sacks of grain and beans needed cooking – and the rack of bottles turned out to be that clear alcohol they made from potatoes. Vodka, Miss Giddy had called it. Capable made a face and recapped the bottle.

Climbing back around the side of the cab was much more tricky than the last time, between the dim light and her bundle. Capable went slowly, trying not to think about Angharad – although that proved impossible when she got to the door and looked inside. Dag, Cheedo and Toast were all sitting in the back, but they'd left a big space where Angharad had been sitting, as if her ghost were still riding with them. 

Capable blinked away the blur in her eyes, pursed her lips, and deliberately crawled across Dag to sit square in the middle of the gap. 

She settled herself, noticing Dag was chewing on her nails again, like she sometimes did when she was nervous or upset. Cheedo was silently miserable as before, but she curled into Capable's side right away. Toast had been gnawing on that toothpick earlier, but she looked calmer now – or at least, she'd stopped looking like she wanted to bite a _person_ instead of just the toothpick. 

Furiosa, who had turned around to watch her climb into the cab, caught her gaze and raised her eyebrows in a silent question at the bundle Capable was carrying.

“I was getting hungry,” Capable said, unwrapping the vegetables.

“Oh, don't eat the potatoes raw!” Dag said, sitting up and dropping her hand away from her mouth. 

“Why not?” Capable said, adjusting the bundle to let Cheedo pick out a handful of greens. Dag was always asking Miss Giddy about green things and reading the few books they had about them, so she would know.

“They're just better for you cooked,” Dag said, plucking a beet out of Capable's pile and starting to scrape off the skin. “You won't _die_ , but—” she winced and cut herself off.

Toast grabbed a couple of turnips and passed one up to Furiosa. “There's plenty of other stuff, Dag, don't fuss. We'll cook them when we get to the Green Place.” Dag was obviously not comforted, though Capable knew Toast meant well.

Capable set aside some greens and an onion for herself, then considered the remaining vegetables. She picked out the biggest turnip and leaned forward between the seats. The man, who had turned his head slightly when she started passing out the food but not reached for anything, looked sideways at her. She couldn't read his expression in the fading light.

She could see the edge of his brand, though, peeking out above the collar of his jacket. They all had them. Breeding stock. Battle fodder. Bloodbag. She thought about the way Nux had gone quiet and soft with just a little gentleness, and wondered if the two men might have more than their scars in common.

“Here,” she said, holding out the turnip. “They're good to eat raw.”

Carefully, he took the turnip out of her hand and sat looking at it for a moment, like he'd never seen one before. Maybe he hadn't. Capable remembered Nux's warning, and wondered just how long he'd been living feral in the Wasteland.

“It's a turnip,” Dag piped up, clearly thinking the same thing. She started listing off the different colors of turnips and talking about something called radishes.

With Dag chattering in her ear, Capable almost missed it when the man said quietly, “I remember.” 

For a second Capable thought she imagined it, but then Furiosa looked over sharply and she knew she hadn't. He'd sounded the way Furiosa did, the few times she'd talked about the Green Place: slow, hushed, a little sad. 

Capable watched him eat the turnip neatly, without wasting a drop of juice or a fleck of root, until he'd eaten it all, including the greens. Then she leaned forward and offered him another.

“There's plenty more,” Capable said, smiling at him. He had a nice face, without the muzzle: sharp bones and rust-colored scruff, worried eyes and a surprisingly soft mouth. 

The man was as hard to read as Furiosa, but she saw a flicker of something, a gentling of those wary eyes, before he hid it all away again. He took the turnip and said, in a voice as rusty as his beard, “Thank you.”

Capable sat back and started peeling her onion, satisfied. Nux had been wrong, and she was right. The man was very different than the boy in the back of the Rig, with his open blue eyes and his brilliant smile, but they were both starving for something more than food just the same.

With a pang, Capable wished Angharad were here so she could whisper that in her ear, watch her mind turn it over and come out with something deeper and more beautiful. Capable would have to keep her own words now.

At least this time, she could blame the onion for the tears she blinked away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For reference: [the inside of the Rig](http://cactusspatz.tumblr.com/post/126789951070/mediocrenorik-bonehandledknife) and [speculation about rotgut](http://cactusspatz.tumblr.com/post/123045850595/wasteland-scraps-cactusspatz). My choice of the vegetables they were shipping came from discussion in [this post](http://cactusspatz.tumblr.com/post/121672584723/mad-max-with-its-visual-effects-worker).


	4. Dag

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the 9-month delay, everyone! This is why I normally resist the temptation to post things as WIPs, because I am the slowest.

Dag leaned out of the door to look at the sky. The moon was nearly full, and even from behind the clouds it transformed the red desert sand into a silvery blue expanse. She wondered if this flat blue plain was what the Ocean used to look like, in the time before.

Through the clouds, she could sometimes see the stars flicker, half drowned by the light of the moon. Miss Giddy had told them that the moon was like one of the giant signal mirrors they used at the Citadel, only millions of kilometers away in space and reflecting the light of the sun. 

It didn't look like a mirror, though. It looked like a headlight, only prettier, and the stars were little cold candle flames that flickered around it.

Angharad had been like that: so bright she outshone the rest of them. Even a blind old schlanger like Joe had seen that. But you couldn't hurt the moon. It was safe, too far to touch.

She turned her face back into Cheedo's shoulder, away from the sky. It was tempting to stay there – Cheedo was soft and warm, and she always smelled nice even when she wasn't clean – but a thought struck Dag and she sat upright. 

“Furiosa, do you have a candle?”

Furiosa turned, still absently polishing dust and grease from the repairs off her metal hand. “A candle?”

“Or something. A light.”

Furiosa studied her, then said, “There's a lantern in the crawlspace. Should be matches, too.”

Dag heaved the trapdoor open and stuck her head down into the metal tunnel. There were nets full of supplies and stuff lining the walls, and she groped around in the half-light from the far end until she caught hold of the lantern.

Pulling herself back upright, Dag nudged Cheedo. “Here, hold the other side.” She waited until Cheedo moved to steady the lantern's base, her fingers warm and slender and familiar where they brushed against Dag's. She slid one hand free and pulled a match from the little bundle that had been hooked onto the casing.

Holding it ready, Dag took a deep breath. Her clan had done this for the dead: lighting a candle or a fire, then letting the light burn out. There was a prayer that went with it, but all the adults had been dead by the time she was old enough to learn it, and the words she knew weren't quite like the ones her Ma had used. But they were what she had.

“From darkness lead her to light. From death lead her to immortality,” she began, and Cheedo's fingers tightened over hers on the lantern. “May the All-Merciful Ones shelter her with the cover of Their wings forever. Forgive her and have mercy on her, keep her safe and sound; wash her with water and snow and protect her from the torment of Hell-fire. Make her grave spacious and fill it with light, for thine is the kingdom, the power and the glory, for ever and ever. Amen.”

Dag scraped the match on the rough belly of the lamp until it caught, and held it to the wick. “For Angharad,” she finished.

“For Angharad,” the others echoed, which wasn't actually part of the ritual, but it felt right anyway. From Cheedo's other side, Capable made a sound like she was crying, but Dag couldn't look at her.

The crazy man cleared his throat. “And the baby,” he said.

Dag startled, at the meaning of his words as much as the unexpected sound of his voice. She curled the hand that wasn't holding the lantern over her still-flat belly. She _knew_ , in the pit of her stomach and the bottom of her heart, that the baby growing in there was going to be ugly and awful – but she supposed he didn't deserve to die just because she wished his father didn't exist, any more than Angharad or her baby had.

“And for the little one,” she said.

No one echoed her this time, but she saw Furiosa look over at the crazy man, her eyes catching the lantern's fire. He looked away, over the moonlit sand, but Dag could still see the side of his face from where she sat. He looked the way she felt, all twisted up and sad and guilty.

Dag looked back at the lamp, which was burning steady despite the wind blowing through the windows. This was the simpler ceremony, the one that her clan used more often, when they needed to leave the dead behind and flee. They were supposed to bury the body, otherwise. 

Angharad's body was with old Joe – if he had stopped to pick her up out of the dust at all. Dag thought he would. That smek couldn't bear to let her be free of him, even in death. She wondered if he would bring Angharad back to the Citadel, shred her with the rest of the dead (and the living few who traitored him) and spread her among the crops. 

Dag liked the idea of that: that in some way, Angharad would still be part of a green place.

Sighing, she pressed her cheek into Cheedo's shoulder and stared at the flame, until the bright dart of fire burned a blank spot in her vision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dag's prayer is the reason this chapter so embarrassingly long-overdue. It's a mashup of [Jewish](http://www.chabad.org/library/article_cdo/aid/367837/jewish/Kel-Maleh-Rachamim.htm), [Islamic](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Salat_al-Janazah), [Hindu](http://www.a-good-dying.com/hindu-prayers.html), and [Christian prayers for the dead](http://www.funeralhelper.org/popular-the-lords-prayer.html). Thanks to everyone who discussed the idea with me [on Tumblr](http://cactusspatz.tumblr.com/post/128260973681/ive-been-wondering-if-anyone-recognizes-dags) back in the day, and to leupagus for helping me polish it off.


	5. Nux

Nux pressed, twisted, and felt the new steering wheel snap into place. The sound always gave him a thrill, every time the same as the first time he'd been honored with a wheel – and especially now, with his blood still racing from the chase. 

He turned sideways and wriggled his foot in the boot that his bloodbag had salvaged for him. It was still a little warm at the bottom, which felt nice after the night chill. There was too much room at the toe but not enough to make his foot slip on the pedals, which was the important part.

“You good to drive?” Furiosa asked.

Nux looked up, his heart revving – but she was talking to the bloodbag. The feral was still sorting through the pile of weapons he'd scavenged from the pursuit vehicle and just grunted at her, like he didn't even know what a privilege it was to drive for Furiosa. Nux sighed wistfully.

Furiosa ordered the breeders – or, not breeders, not wives anymore, either; the girls? – into the back seat of the War Rig, and then raised an eyebrow at Nux. He was still sitting in the driver's seat, he realized, and hopped down.

As Furiosa and the bloodbag climbed into the cab, Nux realized that he was going to be sitting in the _back_. He'd been a full driver for hundreds of days, despite being half-life. It was undignified!

But when he looked back up at the Rig, Capable smiled and slid down the seat for him, and he couldn't help smiling back, swinging himself up into the open space. 

Then he looked past her, and shrank back from the combined glares of the three girls sitting on Capable's far side. He waved a hello, testing the ground, but the glares only intensified. He was suddenly aware of the missing door behind him – and the empty space beyond – more than he had been before.

Instinctively, he glanced at the bloodbag for backup, but couldn't see more than the back of his head. He looked next at Furiosa, who stared him down, her face unreadable.

“War Boy,” the white-blond said. Nux waited, but apparently that was all she had to say. 

“This is Nux,” Capable said, her calm voice breaking the hostile silence. “Nux, this is Dag, Cheedo, and Toast.” She didn't bother introducing Furiosa; everyone knew Furiosa. She also didn't introduce the bloodbag, but maybe ferals didn't have names. (And what kind of name was 'Toast', anyway? Maybe a toast was like the tree-thing. Capable and the others had been honored by the Immortan; they probably knew lots of things that Nux didn't.)

The silence stretched again, until the bloodbag grunted and started flicking switches on the dash. He slapped the starter, and Nux realized with a jolt that he _knew Furiosa's killswitch sequence_. Not even the blackthumbs knew her sequence; they had to go ask her any time they needed to do a long test on the engines.

But the Rig rumbled to life, and kept rumbling along.

“Here,” the Toast girl said, shoving a cloth at Furiosa. “Clean yourself off, the wind keeps blowing sand off you and into my face.”

Nux winced, bracing himself for Furiosa's famous temper in the face of such blatant insubordination – but Furiosa smiled. 

_Smiled_. And took the cloth, and obeyed the order, despite the Toast girl being lower in rank than her, sitting in the back seat and all.

Nux stared. None of these people made any sense. They were all crazy – and not in a familiar way, like being kamicrazy, but a weird way, like the world had been turned upside down.

Something warm brushed again his bare arm, and he looked over. Capable slid her hand over his wrist and twined her fingers between Nux's, locking their hands together like matched gears. It made Nux feel hot all over, despite the cold wind coming through the broken door. 

The wind caught Capable's hair, blowing the red strands across her face, and Nux reached out without thinking to tuck them further back behind her goggle strap. She smiled at him and squeezed his hand.

He squeezed back, that strange heat settling underneath his ribs. This all might be crazy, but he was maybe starting to like it, too.


	6. Cheedo

Cheedo didn't want to do this.

She slipped away from everyone unpacking the bikes and shifting everything back onto the War Rig and sat on the back edge of the War Rig's tank. She pulled her knees up and wrapped her arms around them. The sun was already bright, but she felt cold and sick to her stomach. They were driving back to the Citadel – it was crazy, completely kamicrazy. She imagined seeing Joe again, remembered seeing Angharad fall, and her breath dragged in her throat, her lungs squeezing down like she was the one under the wheels. Maybe she would be, next time.

She felt like she was going to die. She _was_ going to die.

“Hey. Hey! You hurt?” A rough hand touched her elbow and she shied away. 

“I can't breathe,” she gasped. “Oh, stars, we're all going to die. He's going to drag us back on leashes and _shred_ us.”

The madman swore quietly, which Cheedo could barely hear over the roaring in her ears, and his hand came back, pushing her head down between her knees. "Breathe," he ordered. "Stay there."

Cheedo couldn't move anyway. Her whole body was shaking and the world was crushing down around her because there was no getting out of this. The others were all brave, but Cheedo didn't want to die. She didn't want to die like Angharad had died, screaming and falling away. She didn't want to die _any_ way.

Footsteps crunched in the sand, and Furiosa said, "Cheedo, calm down. You have to breathe slowly – in, one, two, three–" She counted again and again, and Cheedo clung to the steady sound of her voice, the confident rhythm of the words. She reached out and found Furiosa's hand, the metal one, and gripped it until the edges dug into her palm.

Slowly, the world came back together, piece by piece: the patterned steel under her fingers, the dusty air, the sun-hot bulk of the Rig. Her breathing stopped scraping in her throat, but she couldn't make herself look up at Furiosa.

“Cheedo,” Furiosa said gently, “it's okay to be afraid.”

Cheedo shook her head. “You don't understand.”

Furiosa reached out and tilted Cheedo's chin until their eyes met. “I've been afraid every day since my mother died. I do understand.”

Cheedo stared, wordless.

Furiosa smiled – a tiny, twisted thing, but not mean – and said, “I learned how to hide it, or turn it into anger. Fear isn't something to be ashamed of.”

Cheedo blinked and liquid spilled down her cheek. “But you're so strong,” she whispered. “You don't freeze up, or panic. I'm just...The Fragile.”

"You're not fragile. If you were fragile, you'd have broken already.” Furiosa always sounded so sure that Cheedo wanted to believe her, even this time. She reached out and wiped Cheedo's tears away with a work-rough finger. “You haven't learned how to put your fear away yet, but it'll come. Think about something that's more important to you, something worth the danger – like Dag.”

Cheedo blushed, and Furiosa smiled.

“C'mon,” she said, pulling Cheedo off the bumper. “Time to get moving.”


	7. Furiosa

Furiosa dreamed she was swimming in the lake by the Green Place, a child again. The paperbark trees rustled along the banks, pale trunks and green leaves vivid against the blue, blue sky. She drifted on her back for a while, barely even needing to move to stay afloat, but then a red cloud of sand blew in over the sky and the water started to drag at her like quicksand. She sank down, down into the water, the sun fading to a distant spark high above, and she fought for air– 

She surfaced, jolting awake in the dark. Agony spiked deep in her chest, and she stifled her moan on reflex – someone might be listening. 

Her mouth felt like a sandpit and her lungs felt sodden, heavy. She turned her head, following the skull-etched metal ceiling to the front of the car. Capable's red curls, Cheedo's dark locks, Dag's white-blond tangle, Toast's spiky skullcap, and Elsie's grey braids spilled over the top of the bench seat. Out the window, the full moon gleamed in the night sky.

Joe was dead, and they'd made it out alive. 

She turned her head the other way.

The Fool was sitting in the back hatch, silhouetted in silver moonlight. Beyond him, she caught a glimpse of Gale's rust-brown Vuvalini jacket. 

“Water.” It came out as a hoarse whisper, barely audible, but the Fool's head snapped around so fast she might as well have shouted.

“Hey,” he said, his face soft with relief as he scooted next to her and held a canteen to her lips. She gulped, trying to curl up for more instinctively and collapsing back when her chest screamed at her for it. 

“Easy,” he said. “Let me.”

“Max? She awake?” Gale peered over his shoulder and her worried scowl melted into a smile. “Well. Hello again, girly. You gave us a scare.”

“Me, too,” Furiosa rasped. 

“Get some rest now. The Citadel can wait 'til morning to see that man's corpse. I'll keep watch. You get some sleep, too,” Gale said, looking pointedly at the Fool. “You lost a lot of blood, same as her, but she's been napping all night.”

The Fool grunted, taking a swing from his own canteen and raising his eyebrow at Gale, like he was making some kind of point. 

Furiosa frowned, something niggling at her memory, something Gale said....

“Max? That your name?”

He looked down at her. She must have looked...not hurt, she was just confused, everything was hazy with pain and exhaustion and relief – but he quirked his lips a bit. “Told you before. You passed out.”

“Rude of me,” she joked, then licked her lips. “More water?”

He tipped the canteen to her mouth again. His hand was still cupping her head, even though she hadn't drunk for a while now. She got a flash of memory, of before, pressing close and struggling to breathe. His thumb shifted a little, stroking the raspy edge of hair above her ear. 

A trickle of water escaped down the side of her face, and he wiped at it clumsily with his right hand. She could feel the blood crusted on her face smear but not wash away.

“Sorry,” he muttered. “There's not enough to clean with.”

_Not enough to last_ , she thought. If they didn't make it into the Citadel, they'd die out here. 

She pushed the thought away, reached up and did the same with Max's hand, pulling it away from her skin and capturing it with her own. 

“Get some rest,” she said. Her eyes were drifting shut again. “Don't wake the girls.”

To her surprise, Max just tightened his grip on her hand and crawled over her to wedge himself in the gap between her and the benchseat. He curled there on his side, their clasped hands resting between them.

“Hey,” she said and waited until he met her eyes. “We're going home. Thank you.” 

He dropped his eyes away, as she'd half-expected, but curled forward until he could press his forehead to their clasped hands. Furiosa watched the sweep of his eyelashes – once, twice, fast blinks over a glint that she didn't want to name – and kept quiet as he squeezed his eyes shut and sighed. She gripped his hand tiredly, aching all over, and let her eyes drift shut. 

Joe was dead, and they were going home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *eyes start and finish dates* Never again will I post anything as a WIP, I swear. /o\ Thank you to those who have stuck with this little story - I hope ya'll enjoy the ending!


End file.
